


Fancy a night in?

by Treesap



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Actual Shenanigans Ensue, F/M, Fluff, Fred Lives, George just wants Hermione to be happy, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-War, hygge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24447712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treesap/pseuds/Treesap
Summary: “Lumos,” George whispered the spell into the clear, night air. The cold silence nipped at his nose, and his fingers shirked from their duty of holding the heavy box. But, even without pulling his wand out, the spell took hold, lighting up the back ally of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. The soft glow emanated from his back pocket, illuminating the purple trash bins and brickwork.He took a moment to consider his aims. Just a quick trip, really. Check on Granger. Maybe make her smile. Drop by a few things he thought she’d like.If she was available, maybe they’d work together on their respective projects for a while. He’d be careful not to infringe. The Weasleys had seen less and less of her recently, and she’d left Ron and Hannah’s wedding reception early last week, claiming a headache.But, George had looked up from his friendly conversation with Katie Bell and spotted her from across the room. Her eyes had been red.That wouldn’t do at all.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/George Weasley
Comments: 11
Kudos: 220





	Fancy a night in?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! This is just a cozy one-shot that I dreamed up this week. Stay safe and healthy! New stuff will be coming soon. :) 
> 
> As always, I do not own the rights to this work.

“Lumos,” George whispered the spell into the clear, night air. The cold silence nipped at his nose, and his fingers shirked from their duty of holding the heavy box. But, even without pulling his wand out, the spell took hold, lighting up the back ally of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. The soft glow emanated from his back pocket, illuminating the purple trash bins and brickwork.

He took a moment to consider his aims. Just a quick trip, really. Check on Granger. Maybe make her smile. Drop by a few things he thought she’d like.

If she was available, maybe they’d work together on their respective projects for a while. He’d be careful not to infringe. The Weasleys had seen less and less of her recently, and she’d left Ron and Hannah’s wedding reception early last week, claiming a headache.

But, George had looked up from his friendly conversation with Katie Bell and spotted her from across the room. Her eyes had been red.

That wouldn’t do at all.

In the three years since the war, things had unraveled a bit. Not in a bad way, necessarily. Just…different. Different than anyone had expected. He laughed softly to himself, thinking back on his younger self’s expectations for the future. After the war, he’d thought that the golden trio would pair off—Ginny and Harry, and Ron and Hermione. It’d felt bittersweet, at the time. George figured he and Fred would continue to run the shop for another ten years at least, before even considering marriage.

Instead, Ron and Hermione’s fledgling relationship had lasted a week or two before the pair called it off, claiming that they really were better as friends. Ron had found Hannah, who George had to admit was perfect for him. Hermione, meanwhile, had thrown herself into her studies and advocacy work. The witch had passed her NEWTS while interning at the Ministry. George smiled, shaking his head. Since then, she’d continued to campaign for magical creature rights, and she was a formidable presence in her appearances before the Wizengamot.

She was brilliant.

And as for his expectations around his twin—he’d been wrong. Angelina had made sure of that, and George was shocked that he didn’t see it coming. Fred and Angelina had been strictly best mates, up until the day that George walked in and found them snogging. He’d been so surprised, he’d dropped a canister of vanishing powder, and the flat was dark for a week. Now, Fred and Angelina were engaged. As happy as George was to see his twin so content, it was still strange to take more of a backseat role in Fred’s life for the first time. Not that George terribly minded. Fred had never been so alive.

But things were a bit lonelier around the flat, he supposed.

So, maybe, a small part of him hoped that Granger and he could be lonely together, in a wholesome, cozy way. Nothing untoward. She was alone more often than not, and so was he, and blast it if he was going to spend yet another winter night staring at the wall, wishing he had someone to talk to.

He’d grabbed some books, a new tea blend he’d been waiting to try, a couple of projects that he’d been working on for the shop, and stuck them into a cardboard box before he could talk himself out of it. He tilted his chin up and stared into the starry sky.

“Please let her be home,” he whispered, watching his breath puff out into fog. He didn’t know why he felt so intimidated. It was just Hermione. They were like brother and sister. He didn’t need to be afraid. And yet… he felt like he was about to sit for his OWLS again.

He straightened his shoulders and summoned the spark of magic in his chest. It enveloped him, tugging him through the fabric of space until he popped onto the walkway outside of Hermione’s flat. It was a ways down Diagon Ally, overtop the bookshop.

He swallowed back the dryness in his mouth and gazed up. Her lights were on. He grinned and sprung forward, resting the box on the ground and pulling his wand from his back pocket. Now for the tricky bit.

“Periculum,” he murmured. A shower of sparks poured from his wand. He flicked it, and the stream zipped up through the dark to greet Granger’s window. It pattered against the glass like a gentle hailstorm.

He didn’t need to wait long.

The window cracked open, and the witch peeked out. When her eyes met his, her face lit with a smile.

“George!” she laughed.

His chest tingled pleasantly, and he heard himself say, “Fancy a night in?”

She tipped her head back, laughing again. Merlin, it was like music.

“Brilliant, come on up,” she called down. Heart thrumming, George stooped to pick up his box and headed up the stairs.

She was waiting for him at the door, holding it open. His eyes flicked over her; she was wearing a light, spaghetti strap dress with a silky, black shawl thrown around her shoulders. He paused at the threshold.

“Oh, you were going somewhere?” he asked. A twinge of disappointment laced through him.

She shook her head. “Not anymore. It was nowhere important.” She turned to hand off a note to her owl, and it swooped past him on its way out. He raised a brow.

She beckoned him inside and smiled. “Honestly, George, you’ve rescued me. A night in sounds so lovely.”

His ears heated. “Happy to oblige,” he said, hugging the box closer to his chest.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll just need a moment to change,” she said, slipping into the back room.

Slowly, he shrugged off his coat and hung it on the rack beside the door. One by one, off came his shoes onto the boot tray. He grinned and shook his head when he saw that his striped socks didn’t match. He probably looked ridiculous anyway with his black slacks, unbuttoned vest, and rumpled button down. He didn’t give it another thought. Rather, he hoisted his box onto the kitchen table and crossed to put the kettle on.

“I’m making tea,” he called out. He nicked a few mugs from the cabinet and plunked them onto the counter. The Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes ones. They were enchanted to hold more than they appeared to. He grinned. It was a good bit of magic, and Hermione had helped them sort it so the mugs would pass safety regulations.

“We’d be lost without you, ‘Mione,” he’d said when they’d finally cracked the puzzle.

He still felt that way, but he tried to not be too greedy with her time. Instead, he opted to treasure whatever bits of it fell his way.

“Hey,” her voice cut through his thoughts. He spun around a bit fast, and his socks slipped on the wood floor. He caught himself on the edge of the counter, eyes widening at the sight of her. Gone was the stiff, formal dress. In its place, she wore oversized, red-checked pyjamas that positively swamped her slight form and looked undeniably cozy. Her eyes sparkled at his clumsiness, and he found himself watching as she lifted a foot and scratched at the back of her other calve with a white sock. Her face colored a bit. “I’ve got to do the wash tomorrow. This is the only clean set of house clothes I have left,” she said.

“That’s quite irresponsible of you, Granger,” he quipped, raising his brows. “Now I’m the one who’s overdressed.” He grinned at her and leaned back against the counter. Mischief sparked in her eyes.

“Are you sure about that, Georgie?” Her wand appeared in her hand, and a dangerous smile flashed across her face.

“You wouldn’t dare.” He folded his arms acrost his chest and beamed down at her smugly.

The non-verbal Multicorfors hit him square in the torso before he could duck. He blinked down as his rumpled clothes morphed into a white t-shirt and a ridiculous set of purple-checked pyjama bottoms. His socks didn’t change. He raised his head and fixed her with an incredulous stare.

“Playing dirty now, are we Granger?” he asked. She laughed, shaking her head. “Because I know at least twelve spells that make snails come out of your nose,” he said, lunging forward. She shrieked, laughing, and tore around the corner into the living room. Without thinking, George dashed after her. Hermione ducked behind the couch and fired a pillow at him. He caught it and held it in front of him like a shield. He dodged two more cushions, and vaulted around the sofa, landing before her with a _thump_. She reached back, clearly intending to nail him with another pillow. But, before she could release, he swooped forward and caught her wrist in his hand. That pleasant sort of tingle spread through his fingers.

“Hold your fire, General,” he said, grinning down at her.

She raised a brow. “Truce?” 

He pretended to consider it for a moment before relenting. “Alright,” he said, dropping her wrist.

She thwacked him over the head with the pillow. He gasped.

“That’s against the rules!” he shouted as she reared back and nailed him again. Dramatically, he fell to his knees and toppled facedown onto the ground. She stilled and knelt beside him.

“George?” her voice was hesitant and laced with concern.

“I surrender,” he said, voice muffled by the carpet. “You’ve wounded me, Granger.” He shook with laughter. The pillow came down, softer this time, onto his shoulders. Finally, she relented. He scrambled back onto his elbows. “You’re pretty scrappy, Hermione.”

Her hair was a mess. It’d sprung free of its tie, and a few curls were dropping against her face. She breathed heavily, but her eyes crinkled at the corners. Good.

She opened her mouth to say something, but the kettle whistled. Hermione stood, then reached down to help him up. She crossed to pour the hot water, and he busied himself with righting the couch.

She levitated the mugs over to him, and they came to rest on the coffee table. He tucked a few coasters under them and looked up to see her smiling at him again. His face flushed.

“What?” he asked, suddenly self conscious. She bit her lip, still smiling.

“What’s in the box?” she asked.

“Right!” George bounded over and knelt beside it. “Some books for you,,” he took them out and stacked the heavy tomes to the side, “some books for me,” he pulled out a mechanical manual, a joke book, and a worn paperback with a dragon on the cover. “Some prototypes I’m tinkering with, and a new tea blend that we might sell in the shop. Fred said that we should try it.”

His brother had specifically recommended Hermione and he try it, which was strange, but he wasn’t complaining. Trying their stock, even the most ridiculous of it, was one of his favorite parts of the job. Besides, it was probably tame; Fred wouldn’t send anything too dreadful to Hermione. He lifted the tin and squinted at the text. It was in French.

He padded over to the couch, books under his arm. “I can try it first if you’d like,” he smiled sheepishly. “Just in case.”

Her brows shot up, and she looked up at him with a skeptical smirk. “I don’t fancy my hair turning purple this evening, and I wouldn’t put it past Fred to try it,” she said. Then, more seriously, “Do you know what it does, George?”

“No, but I like being surprised,” he said, shooting her a playful grin before dropping the bags into the water. “Just wait a few minutes to make sure it doesn’t turn me into a troll,” he said. She bit her lip, obviously worried. What was that about?

Hermione lit a fire in the hearth, and they dropped onto the sofa to read. He’d picked some good ones on legislative history for her, and she was quickly engrossed. After a few minutes, he absentmindedly drew the mug to his lips and took a sip. It wasn’t bad. Mostly floral and citrus notes. He waited a moment. Nothing happened. He took a longer draught, then stared down at it, bemused. This didn’t seem to fit the scope of their regular stock, but maybe Fred liked it. He replaced the mug on the table and turned back to his novel.

Hermione shifted, and he glanced up. She was staring down at the tome and making a note on a separate pad of paper that she had balanced on the back of the sofa. She chewed on the end of the sugar quill, her brows wrinkled in concentration. Something tingled in his chest, and he felt his face flush. Confused, he stared back down at his novel. He tried and failed several times to read through a sentence. But, every time he neared the end, he found his thoughts wandering to the witch beside him.

Why was it bloody near impossible to focus?

George snuck glances at her over the pages of his book. The firelight made her hair gleam. She glanced up and caught him watching. Unbidden, the image of wrapping his hands around her waist and bringing his mouth to hers flashed through his mind. His face flamed. What was he thinking?

Hermione cocked her head to the side, a curious smile playing at her lips. What would she feel like, cuddled against him with her back pressed snug to his chest? He shook his head and dropped his gaze, mute in shock at the mutiny inside of his mind.

What was this?

What was wrong with him?

He rubbed the back of his neck, scrambling for some clarity.

“Are you alright, George?” Her voice was soft, and her hand came to rest lightly on his.

Another image flashed by—him slowly kissing her palm, then her wrist, then—he stopped himself. Think of something else. Anything else. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes.

What was in the tea?

“You look warm—“ she was saying. The couch dipped as she crawled towards him, and he felt her cool hand on his forehead. He shivered, then tipped his head back to look at the ceiling.

“I’m alright,” he said, voice thick in his throat. He cracked his eyes open, and she was looking down at him, brow quirked in skepticism.

Merlin, she smelled like orange blossoms. He had opened his mouth to tell her so, when he realized what he was doing, and clamped it shut.

“Your face is quite red,” she said.

“Your face is—” _quite pretty_ , but he couldn’t say that. “—also good,” he finished weakly. He gulped.

She pushed his hair back, and his breath left him. As she touched him, something foreign and exciting thrummed through him.

Something that was going to get him into a whole lot of trouble if he wasn’t careful. Her fingers paused, then brushed back through his hair. His eyelids fluttered shut.

“Hermione,” her name snuck past his lips in a shaky breath. Blast it. He gripped his knee until it ached. Anything to keep himself from reaching out to her. Her hand withdrew. He took a deep breath. Then a second, focusing on naming each of the ingredients to a sleeping draught. Flobberworm Mucus, Valerian sprigs, Lavender. The image of Hermione, smiling, on her tip toes as she leaned into him.

It was like he’d been dosed with something.

She reached forward, across him and grabbed her mug. His eyes flew open, and he snatched it from her hand. The liquid sloshed dangerously inside of it. “You can’t drink this,” he said, voice wobbling but urgent.

“Oh really?” she leaned forward, a quizzical look on her face.

“There’s something wrong with it,” he said. His voice sounded dry, hoarse. He searched her face, anxiety filling him. His eyes dropped to her lips. _Stop it_. He blinked back, trying to look at the wall instead. What would she think when she put two and two together and realized the state he was in? “Tastes like rubbish.” He quickly downed her mug before she could react. Better him than her.

“George, you’re not making any sense,” she said, irritation edging into her voice. Bullocks.

“Sorry—um, I’ll make you something better,” he said, bolting to his feet. Ignoring her confused stare, he paced over to the kitchen to reheat the kettle. The distance left him feeling cold. But it was safer this way.

The kettle was heavy in his hands, and his head was light.

“I can read French, you know,” Hermione said. He started. She’d joined him in the kitchen and was leaning against the wall trim on the threshold, the tea tin in her hands. She sounded nervous.

“Is that so?” George said, voice faint, not trusting himself to turn around and face her. He lit the burner. He could feel her eyes on him. His movements slowed.

“I-I was going to check the label to see if you might be allergic to something in it,” she murmured, suddenly tripping over her words.

“I’m having an allergic reaction?” he asked. That would explain the strange feeling in his chest. Not to mention the way that certain thoughts were escaping from the boxes he usually kept them in. “But, Fred wouldn’t give me something that I’m allergic to.”

“That’s what I thought as well,” she hastened to say. “And, well, George… I’m sorry...” she trailed off.

“What?” he finally turned to look at her. Her face was just as red as his was.

“The package claims that drinkers will ‘reveal their true feelings,’ and something about faces changing colors,” she said, looking everywhere but his eyes.

Bloody H—

Fred.

“But, since it’s just us, it seems to have made you a bit woozy instead,” she offered him a small smile. Here it was—a getaway car. An escape hatch of an excuse. An explanation for his odd behavior.

Why was he disappointed?

“George? Why did Fred give you this?” She was looking at him like he was a puzzle that she couldn’t quite solve.

_“Show her this, Georgie. I want her advice on whether we should sell it in the shop. Make sure she reads the label.”_

“I haven’t the faintest,” he mumbled, turning back to the stove.

He was throttle him. This was too far.

“I’ll make you a calming draught,” she whispered, and disappeared into the back room once more. When she returned, it was with a vial in hand. She pressed it into his fingers without making eye contact. He tipped it down his throat.

The spinning slowed, but the tingling in his chest stayed constant. He did a quick diagnostic spell, looping his wand around towards his wrist. It flashed white. Normal? Then why did he still feel—? He shook his head. It wouldn’t due to worry her. He could investigate that later.

“I used the ingredients for the antidote listed on the tin,” she said, conversationally. “Nothing too complicated. I bet you’ll feel better now,” she said.

“Right,” he ventured a grin. “Please help me take the piss out of Fred over this. I don’t know what that git was trying to do, but…”

“It was a pretty good prank,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Even if it didn’t work.” She bumped him aside with her hip, reaching up to grab some chamomile. His eyes trailed over the lines of her arm and torso.

“Yeah,” he said.

They stayed quiet for a while, carrying the fresh mugs back out to the living room. George sat on the floor, his back to the couch as he hunched over the coffee table and tinkered with a new trick-quill. It was supposed to write jokes instead of what the user wished to inscribe. Unfortunately, something was wrong, and it wouldn’t stop emitting short bursts of electricity every time he picked it up. Not quite safe for children.

Nothing was going right, tonight. First, he’d made a fool of himself. He was lucky she’d brushed his actions off as the result of a silly prank. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t banish the feeling of disappointment inside him. It was as though he’d missed some sort of opportunity.

One that may never present itself again. The thought made his stomach twist.

A particularly harsh jolt. He hissed, drawing his finger back up to his lips.

“Protego,” Hermione’s voice came from behind him, and a small bubble shield popped up between him and the quill.

“Thanks,” he said. She slid towards him, leaning over his shoulder to get a closer look. He could feel the heat of her face, just a few inches from his. He tilted his head, daring to look at her.

She was so close.

“Have you tried…” she trailed off and pursed her lips in concentration. Her wand flashed orange, and the quill ceased its buzzing. She nodded, a satisfied smirk playing at the edges of her mouth. Then, she grabbed his hand, examining the burn mark on his fingertips. “Episky,” she whispered. The sting lessened, but the ache in his chest went nowhere.

“What would I do without you, Hermione?” His voice was low and soft, and he gave her a bemused smile.

She turned to face him, and their eyes met.

“You’d manage,” she said, cheeks pink.

“Doubtful,” he breathed.

Hermione furrowed her brow, looking back and forth between his eyes, hesitating. Finally, she said, “Earlier, I thought you might, I mean, but I wasn’t—“ her voice dropped off, and she took in a shaky breath.

“You thought I might?” George prompted gently.

“It’s quite ridiculous really. I don’t know what came over me. I mean you’d never feel that way about me, you know? And that’s,” her voice caught a bit. “…fine. I was just a bit confused,” she continued, rambling at her hands now.

George felt a slow grin spread over his face, but he kept his voice soft to avoid startling her.

“Merlin, Granger, you think it’s ridiculous that I’d fancy you?” George asked, tilting his head to search her face. “When all I do is look for excuses to stop by, write you notes all the time, and drop off books I think you’ll like for no other purpose but to see you smile?”

“Stop teasing,” she whispered, looking pained.

“I’m not,” he replied, drifting closer. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, then back up to meet his. The heat blossomed in his chest. “Are you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she faltered, but she didn’t look away.

“So, you’re not leaning closer on purpose?” he murmured, tilting his face towards her. Their noses were a hair’s breadth away. She shook her head, looking very much lost.

“Hermione Jean,” he breathed, stilling himself and shutting his eyes. “Would you like me to kiss you?”

The fire crackled.

He felt her nod, felt her breath on his face as she whispered “That sounds suitable,” Her voice dropped lower. “If you’d like to, that is.”

He leaned ever closer, letting a rogue smile play at his lips. “Suitable? Kissing me would be suitable?” he whispered, not quite making contact.

Her eyes fluttered shut and then back open in a slow blink. He felt her breathe. “It would be ideal, yes,” she murmured. He reached up and one of the curls that framed her face around his finger.

“Ah. Ideal, then,” George said, tracing over her features with his eyes. He never wanted to forget this exact moment, with her looking back at him. He shifted his hand to cradle the back of her head, skimming his thumb over her cheek. “Hermione, I—"

She pressed her mouth to his. His breath caught and elation zipped around his ribcage like a rogue firecracker. She twined her arms around his neck. Clumsy and drunk on her touch, he twisted, stumbling to kneel on the edge of the sofa cushion.

Her flannels were soft under his hands as he pulled her snugly to his chest. She clutched the front of his shirt, as though he would vanish.

She pulled away a fraction of an inch, breaking the kiss. George made to suck in a breath, shock still coursing through him. He had kissed Hermione. Hermione had kissed him. Then her lips brushed along his jaw, the scar of his ear. His mind blanked.

“Oh,” he said, staring ahead in surprise at the lighting bolt of euphoria in her touch. His hands shook just the slightest bit as he brought them to rest on her shoulders.

She stilled. “Merlin, I’m so sorry. Was that okay?” she asked, leaning back to check in.

“It’s, yeah, it’s um. Good. Just caught me off guard.” He said, nodding emphatically, eyes wider than they’d been before. “Only thing that’s been near that ear of late is spoons.”

She laughed, and he delighted at having made her smile. Then, he brought their mouths back together.

When they finally did break apart again, they were both breathless and merry.

“Mischief managed?” Hermione quipped, leaning against his shoulder and looking up at him.

“I’d say so,” he replied, tapping her gently on the nose. He couldn’t keep the smile from his eyes.

“George?” her voice was quiet.

“Yes, Mione?”

“I really fancy you,” she said, hiding her face in his neck.

“Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“I really fancy you, too.”

“Good, you’d be a prat if you didn’t,” she said, relaxing against him.

He threw his head back and laughed, drawing her closer.

They laid on the couch together, watching the fire until dawn.


End file.
